


Practice

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6530098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson questions Holmes about a particular talent and the answer is more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Практика](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12563016) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



“ How  _on earth_  did you ever learn to do that?” I asked one evening between gasps of breath. We were lying on my bed, sprawled out in a disheveled mess of discarded shirtfronts and bedclothes. I was flat on my back as Holmes, who only moments before had me at his mercy, kissed his way up from my hips. When he reached my mouth, I could taste myself on his tongue.

“Practice, my good man, practice.”

That Holmes had lovers before me was immediately obvious, even from our first dalliance. Being a gentleman, he rarely spoke on the subject, but it was evident in his immense talent for bringing me off in embarrassingly short spans of time—or, better still, agonizingly erotic eternities—always with the most expert ministrations. I have written often, publicly, and perhaps too overtly about his hands, and it is true that with them he can play me quite as readily as he can his violin—fingers running up my thighs, curling around my cock, or sliding inside me in orgasmic portamentos. However, his oral accomplishments are what first hinted at the depth of his previous experience; they are beyond words and when his beautiful lips part to swallow me whole, I too go beyond words. I must confess, even the recollection is enough to make my face hot and my trousers tight. Let it be enough to say, then, that I am a terribly lucky man who was, at that moment, dreadfully curious.

“Just how much practice?” 

By now he was sitting against the headboard, cigarette in hand and rummaging through my bedside table in search of a light. I leaned across him to find my lighter and held it for him. He nodded his head in gratitude, taking a long pull of his cigarette. I settled back, eyes drinking in the length of his throat as he tilted his head up, a great curl of smoke rising from his lips.

“Would you like an approximation in hours? Or would you prefer to know the number of subjects tested?” he asked as clinically as though I’d inquired after his latest method for determining the age of blood stains. Professionalism bordering on curtness. His tone alone nearly convinced me I was wrong to ask, but the grin spreading playfully across his lips gave me new confidence.

“The latter, I should think.”

Holmes chuckled around his cigarette and seemed to consider the question for some time. I waited, hands folded across my chest, my pulse rising as I felt my curiosity give way to nervousness. What business was it of mine how many lovers he’d known? What did it matter? Why was it taking him so bloody long to answer? I cursed myself inwardly. Holmes put on his best calculating expression. I have no doubt he was enjoying the sight of my anxiety.

After a dreadfully long minute, I could no longer hold my tongue. “Well? Is it really so difficult to count them all?”

“My dear Doctor, I do believe you’re jealous.” The grin on his face was positively devilish now. I pinched his arm in revenge. He winced theatrically and conceded: “Ouch—fine, if you must know… it’s twelve. Well, you make very lucky thirteen.”

“Thirteen!” 

“In that particular field,” he carried on, calmly extinguishing the end of his cigarette in the ashtray, “More, if you’re including manual exercises.  Less, if you’re considering it in other ways. Of course, there is quite a bit of overlap—“

“Thirteen?” I repeated, incredulous this time, and propped myself up on my elbows. 

“Yes. No need to sound so priggish; I’m not the first man to count as a notch in your bedpost. With how many school chums and fusiliers do I share the distinction?”

“ _Two_ ,” hissed I, feelingly suddenly venomous, “and I recall both their names, which is probably more than you can say for your… dozen.”

Blood pounded in my ears. I felt suddenly like a coal, small and red hot. His experience dwarfed my own, even if I considered both sexes across several continents. I had never figured myself for a jealous man, but the thought that twelve others knew the undulations of Holmes’s tongue along their lengths, had seen those dark-lashed eyes gaze coyly up at them as his lips wrapped around their cocks, made my head swim. So enveloped in covetousness was I that when those same lips were suddenly pressing tobacco-laced kisses upon my own, I was quite unprepared. He repeated the gesture until my ire relented and my body melted against his. I kissed him back eagerly, fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him down into my arms. Lips and tongues slid over one another while our limbs entwined. Half tangled in the bedclothes, I pressed our hips together and he moaned into my mouth. When we finally pulled apart, we were both short of breath and I was well on my way towards another arousal. 

His grey eyes moved across my face, following the path his fingers were tracing along my hairline, down the side of my jaw. Another smile formed, soft and delicate this time.

“You do know how much I care for you…” His voice was quiet, sweetly conspiratorial. 

“I do.” My arm settled over his waist. I probably looked nearly as sheepish as I felt. 

Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against mine. “Then you know you’ll never have cause for jealousy on my account.”

“No, of course not. I am sorry for my reaction. I suppose it’s true what they say about curiosity and cats and all that.”

He made an amused hum and kissed me once more before arranging himself against the pillows. “You know, if anything you ought to be very thankful for those first dozen volunteers.”

“ _First_  dozen?” 

“Particularly the earliest attempts—I sincerely doubt those fellows enjoyed themselves anywhere near as much as you do. It is a skill learned in time, you know. Trial and error. The boys at university certainly never made any of those wonderful noises you make.”

“Oh, shut up.” 

In spite of myself, I couldn’t keep from smiling. Once again I thought of Holmes with his previous lovers, though now in place of his peerless excellence, I saw Holmes the Novice: awkward, uncoordinated, probably more than a bit toothsome. Today, I am very thankful to those brave lads for, as Holmes would put it, ‘their contributions to science’ and I plan to dedicate myself to his further experiments for the rest of my days. After all, practice makes perfect.


End file.
